


From Every Angle

by lecrivaineanonyme



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 'Swawesome Santa, 'Swawesome Santa 2016, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Jack's Camera, Jack's Photography Class, M/M, Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, zimbits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-10 22:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8941855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecrivaineanonyme/pseuds/lecrivaineanonyme
Summary: Bittle glanced up from his work, then did a double take. “Jack, how long’ve you been standing there?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds. His eyes fell on Jack’s camera. “Mr. Zimmermann, did you just take my picture?”
“Yeah, that was me.” Jack’s lips curled into a grin as Bittle glowered. “Homework, eh?”
Also known as the one where the most important thing Jack learns in his photography class is that Bitty looks good from every angle.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladanse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladanse/gifts).



> Presenting my debut Zimbits fic! This is my ‘Swawesome Santa gift for ladanse, who requested a cutesy fic with in-canon pining, featuring hockey and Jack’s camera. I took one look at this prompt and immediately my mind screamed FRAME IT AROUND JACK’S PHOTOGRAPHY SYLLABUS because I spent far too many years in higher education. It features a lot more of Jack’s camera than it does hockey, and the pining is subtle (because Jack is Jack and doesn’t know he’s pining) but I really hope you like it, ladanse! Happy Holidays!
> 
> A huge THANK YOU to my betas - Lynchy8 (waging war against my excessive commas and split infinitives since 2013), consultingclassicist (calling me out on my B.S. and forcing me to do real research since 2007) and semigalactic (answering distressed calls for betas since 2016). This fic wouldn’t exist or be as good without your encouragement and input. The time you took from your real lives during the busy holiday season is so appreciated. Thanks for putting up with me and my shrieky texts/WhatsApp messages/Facebook messages. Y’all are ‘SWAWESOME.
> 
> Disclaimers: These wonderful characters and universe belong to Ngozi and I am not a photographer. I have, in fact, now read several photography course syllabi (and practically memorized Bitty’s Twitter feed), but my own skills are limited to point and shoot, exclusively in that order. All of Jack’s bad jokes ARE my own, I take full credit and responsibility for them.

_ART 335 Intermediate Photography, Spring 2015, Professor Ina Martinelli_

_This course is a continuation of ART 235, Introduction to Photography. Students will develop and refine photography techniques, including portraiture, black and white photography, event photography, and environmental photography. In particular, students will explore how the processes of creating images informs and is informed by the desire to create and express meaning._

 

Jack had always enjoyed photography. As someone who often struggled to communicate his own thoughts with words, he appreciated the power images had to convey what words could not. The energy of Shitty, mid-rant on heteronormativity in sports culture; the triumph of Lardo winning yet another game of beer pong; the elation of Chowder, seeing the frozen-over Pond for the first time.

Words were difficult for Jack. But photography - that was something he understood.

He hadn’t come to Samwell under the greatest circumstances, but he knew that the four years he had spent here had been some of the best of his life and that the friends he had made were worth their weight in gold. Time was fleeting - he wanted to hold on to his memories of life at Samwell. He didn’t have Shitty or Nursey’s way with words; writing down the feelings, thoughts, and memories he wanted to preserve wouldn’t work nearly as well. And he’d wanted to take another photography course if he could. So he went ahead and signed up for ART 335 and dug his DSLR out of his closet.

 

* * *

 

_Weeks 2 and 3: Environmental Photography_

_Assignment: No Place Like Home_

_Environmental photography is concerned with capturing and explaining a particular environment, both through the space it occupies and the people and objects that inhabit that space. One of the most important environments is home; like most environments, home is comprised of both people and place. Shoot the equivalent of a roll of film of the people and space that constitutes your home. You will select 8 shots to print, mat, and bring to class for critique._

 

“Decided to go for the photography class?”

Jack looked away from the viewfinder on his camera to see Lardo next to him. She had her purple jacket zipped up to her chin and her matching beanie pulled down over her ears.

“Yeah,” he answered, looking back at his camera. He’d been taking pictures of the tree in front of the Haus for his assignment. “I mean, it’s my last semester, eh? Might as well have a bit of fun.”

“Good for you, dude,” Lardo said, bumping her shoulder into his side. “Who’s the prof?”

“Martinelli.” Jack snapped a few shots of the gaping knot in the tree, lips quirking up in a small smile remembering the last time  Ransom and Holster had tried to fit Bittle inside of it. “I haven’t had a class with her before.”

“Oh, she is _‘swawesome_ ,” Lardo said, eyes lighting up. “Did you see her faculty exhibit last semester? It was based on her collaborative work with the psych department on student stress. Totally amazing.”

“I didn’t,” Jack replied. “Sounds like it was good.”

“So good. I bet if you ask nicely, she’ll show you the photos,” Lardo said. “So, why exactly are you taking pictures of a tree?”

“Assignment.” Jack adjusted the focal length and took another photo. “We’re working on environmental photography, so we have to shoot a roll based on home.”

“So why aren’t you taking pictures of Faber?” Lardo grinned cheekily.

“Keep chirping me, and I won’t show you what I’ve done,” Jack replied, checking the photos he’d taken on the camera’s display.

“Don’t make empty threats, Jack,” Lardo scolded. “You know you want my opinion.”

Jack handed her the camera. “I’m just getting started,” he said. “Trying to remember how to use this thing.”

“Like riding a bicycle,” Lardo said, scrolling through the photos. “You never really forget.” She tapped the viewfinder. “What’s your focal point on these tree pictures?”

“If you have to ask, then I have a problem,” Jack answered, peering over her shoulder. “The focal point is supposed to be the knot in the tree.”

“Ah, okay.” She thought for a moment, chewing her lip. “I think maybe the shot would be better if you took the picture from below? Like from my height? You might get a more dynamic composition that way.”

“You think?” Jack took the camera from her and knelt, angling his lens up. “Oh, I see what you mean. You can see how deep the knot goes from down here.”

“It’ll naturally draw the eye to the knot,” Lardo agreed.

“Pays to be short sometimes, eh?” Jack teased as he stood back up. He brushed the snow off of his knees. “It’s like a whole new world down there.”

“Yeah, yeah, a real fantastic point of view,” Lardo replied, rolling her eyes.

“YO JACK! JACK LAURENT ZIMMERMANN!”

“Yell my name a little louder, I think there’s some people in the ‘burbs who didn’t hear you, Shits,” Jack said, looking up. Shitty was leaning out of Bittle’s bedroom window, a half-eaten apple in his hands. Bittle himself was there, too. He gave Jack a bright smile.

“Brah, why are you taking pictures of that tree when you could be taking pictures of us?” Shitty slung his arm around Bittle. “You have a Haus full of the sexiest fucking co-eds on this campus and you’re taking pictures of a tree.”

“I dunno, Shits,” Jack replied, glancing back at the tree. “The tree’s not as fussy a model.”

“Hey, I am the best fucking model ever,” Shitty retorted. “Just ask Lardo. I’ve modeled for her loads of times. I am a goddamn _professional_.”

“A professional, eh? Mama didn’t see you at the last union meeting,” Jack said with a grin. “She would’ve told me if they let you in.”

“Quit sassing me and take our picture, Zimmermann,” Shitty grumbled. “Just look at how the late afternoon light reflects off Bitty’s hair. That’s artistic, right?” 

Shitty had a point, Jack thought. The afternoon sun gave Bittle a gentle, angelic glow. With his big eyes and cherubic face, he wouldn’t have looked out of place in some Renaissance painter’s vision of heaven. Not as one of those fat baby angels, but as a regal, terrifying angel. A St. Michael, descending from the heavens and leading armies...

“You just never mind him, Jack,” Bittle said, interrupting Jack’s train of thought. “He’s being a brat because I made him put on pants.”

“Brah, I spent _all day_ wearing pants,” Shitty said incredulously. “And then I come to my own Haus and get told to put them back on. It’s a fucking injustice, man. Can’t a brah just get some air circulating around - “

_Click_.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you did _not_ just take our picture,” Shitty said. “Brah, I wasn’t even _near_ ready. It takes a minute for me to get the smize going.”

“The light hit Bittle's hair just right,” Jack said with a shrug. “We can take another?”

“Please.” Shitty ran his hands through his flow while Bittle flushed. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

 

* * *

 

Shitty professed himself satisfied with the second photograph. “Look at those fucking smize, brah,” he gloated. “I knew that ANTM marathon with Holster would pay off. Fucking professional development.”

“I like this one better,” Jack replied, cycling back to the first photograph. “Look, I got the Bittle eyebrow raise.”

“Ugh, you would,” Shitty groaned. “You always like those SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER, I JUST TOOK YOUR PICTURE photographs.”

“Candids, Shits,” Jack corrected. “They’re called candids.”

“Whatever,” Shitty replied. “You get a bad grade by choosing that one for critique, don’t blame me.”

Jack looked back at the picture. Bittle had his eyebrows raised in fond exasperation, arms folded as he watched Shitty gesticulate about the injustices of wearing pants. He was now an indulgent angel, listening to the belabored frustrations of humanity.   

Yeah, Jack thought. That was definitely the photo for his assignment.

 

* * *

 

Jack shut his history text with a yawn and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He glanced over at the clock. He still had a bit of time before bed and the chatter coming from downstairs meant the frogs were still in the Haus. Perfect opportunity to take more photos for his assignment.

Grabbing his camera, Jack opened his door to the smell of vanilla wafting down the hallway. His stomach rumbled; maybe he’d pop by the kitchen and steal a taste of whatever Bittle was baking before he started taking pictures .

The kitchen was covered in racks of cooling sugar cookies. Bittle himself was standing at the kitchen table, earbuds in, rolling out dough for yet more cookies in the square foot of space that wasn’t covered in cookie racks. He’d pushed up his sleeves to his elbows and was bopping along to whatever song was playing on his phone. His hair was rumpled, as if he’d run his hands through it, and there was a swipe of flour across his forehead.

Bittle always looked undeniably at home in the kitchen, moving about it with an ease that came from years of experience. It was endearing, really. Especially the way he bit his lip as rolled out the dough.

_Click_.

Bittle glanced up from his work, then did a double take. “Jack, how long’ve you been standing there?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds. His eyes fell on Jack’s camera. “Mr. Zimmermann, did you just take my picture?”

“Yeah, that was me.” Jack’s lips curled into a grin as Bittle glowered. “Homework, eh?”

“Well, give a boy some warning next time,” Bittle huffed, hands flying to his hair. “ _Lord_ , I look like a disaster.”

“You look fine,” Jack said reassuringly. He reached out and brushed off the flour on Bittle’s forehead. “There. Picture perfect.”

“Flattery’ll get you nowhere,” Bittle grumbled, but his cheeks had flushed a delicate pink.

“Aw, you can trust me, Bittle,” Jack said. “Had my picture taken once or twice. I’m pretty sure I know what camera-ready looks like .”

“You’re buttering me up like a biscuit. You must want cookies,” Bittle said, reaching for a plate on the counter behind him. “Here are the ones that broke when I pulled them off the sheet.” He shoved the plate into Jack’s hands. “You eat these, and nobody need know. Paw Paw always said broken cookies meant fewer calories, so you won’t ruin your diet.”

“Hm, so does that mean if I were to knock these cookies over -” Jack gestured over to the racks on the countertop, grinning mischievously “-and they just so happen to break, then I get to eat them, too?”

“Oh no you don’t,” Bittle scolded, shooing Jack towards the door. “Out of my kitchen, Mr. Zimmermann!”

Jack chuckled, letting his teammate push him out the door. “Thanks for the cookies!” he called over his shoulder as he headed for the living room.

 

* * *

 

The photo of Bittle turned out surprisingly well; Jack had caught him rolling out a fresh chunk of cookie dough, brown eyes squinted in concentration, cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven, tongue poking out. The flash had rendered the background dark, focusing on Bittle in the center. A warmth settled in Jack’s chest whenever he looked at the photograph; he could almost smell the scent of freshly-baked cookies emanating from the image.

Well, nothing represented life at the Haus quite as well as Bittle puttering about the kitchen. Bittle was going to be in two photographs for this assignment. After all, it wasn’t as if he could include the picture of Shitty napping naked on the couch in the assignment, no matter how artistic the shadows falling across his ass were. ART 335 was not ready for naked Shitty .

 

* * *

 

_Weeks Five and Six: Night Photography_

_Assignment: When the Sun Goes Down_

_Life doesn’t stop once the sun goes down, and neither does the photographer. Shoot the equivalent of a roll of film at night, starting around dusk and ending when the sun has completely disappeared. You will select 8 shots to print, mat, and bring to class for critique._

 

“Yo Shits, want to go with me while I take pictures tonight?” Jack asked, swiveling around in his desk chair.

Shitty was lounging on Jack’s bed in his boxers. It had been a compromise; Shitty had interpreted Jack’s ultimatum of _no pants, no bed_ to include boxers under the definition of “pants.” Jack had been too tired to fight, and let Shitty gleefully add it to the case law surrounding the Haus Bylaws.  

“Nah brah, I gotta help Lardo with some art piece tonight,” he replied. “Why don’t you ask Bitty? He’s always up baking something.”

“He hates the cold,” Jack said, crossing his leg over his knee. “I think I heard him say he’s refusing to leave the Haus until it’s at least fifty degrees.”

“Bribe him with Annie’s,” Shitty said wisely. “Always works.”

There was pop music coming from Bittle’s room - Nicki Knowles , maybe? - so Jack went ahead and banged on the door.

“Bittle!” he called. “Bittle, you got a minute?” He frowned when Bittle opened the door, yawning. “Oh, uh, sorry Bittle, I heard music and thought you were up.”

“I was up, just playin’ some Bey for motivation,” Bittle replied. He stretched, his t-shirt riding up enough to show off his abs. “This homework is ridiculous. What’re you goin’ on about, Jack?”

“Night assignment,” Jack said stupidly, staring at Bittle’s abs.

“Night...assignment?” Bittle raised an eyebrow. “Think you dropped a few words there, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“I have an assignment,” Jack said, tearing his eyes away and up towards Bittle’s face. “We have to take pictures at night. Want to come?”

“Oh.” Bittle bit his lip. “Well gosh, I mean, it sounds fun, but, um...”

“It’s not _that_ cold, Bittle,” Jack said, smirking.

“Yes it is, and you know it!” Bittle said defensively. “This cold is unnatural.” He shivered, as if a gust of wind had suddenly come through the Haus.

“I’ll get you hot chocolate at Annie’s,” Jack said temptingly. “With the marshmallows you like.”

“Oh, you play _dirty_ ,” Bittle huffed. “Fine, I’ll go. But if I get frostbite, or pneumonia, or hypothermia, or some other godawful disease, it’s your fault. And you’ll bring me soup and explain to my mama exactly what happened.”

“Deal,” Jack said. “Be ready by four, eh?”

“Fine.” Bittle shut his door and started shuffling around. Jack had a sneaking suspicion that he was digging out the long underwear Mama Bittle had sent back in October.

 

* * *

 

It was four fifteen when Bittle finally shuffled out onto the porch of the Haus, looking like he was setting off on a polar expedition. His red coat was zipped up to his chin, scarf wrapped firmly around his neck, and hat pulled down over his ears.

Jack snapped a picture, snickering as Bittle puffed up in displeasure.

“I thought you were supposed to take pictures of the scenery at night,” he grumbled. “Not me.”

“Well, you are part of the scene and it _is_ night,” Jack said, grinning. “Technically it counts.”

“Do you even have an assignment?” Bittle asked. “Or did you make this up as an excuse to get chirpin’ material?”

“Definitely an assignment,” Jack answered. “The chirping material’s just a side benefit.”

“Well, then let’s go find those geese and whatever else it is you take pictures of,” Bittle huffed, stomping down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

They ended up in Lake Quad, Jack taking photos of students shuffling to and fro, illuminated by the lamplights and the glow from the building windows.

Bittle, it turned out, was great company. He kept up a steady stream chatter ranging from the latest issue of the Swallow to current Bittle family dramas.

“Mee Maw and Auntie Sue have been debating sugar cookie recipes,” he said as they stomped through the snow towards Gregory Hall. “Auntie Sue found this new recipe that uses sour cream instead of butter, which makes the dough a little easier to roll out, but Mee Maw insists that Auntie Sue is just too rough with her dough.”

“Wait, so your aunt puts sour cream in cookies?” Jack asked. “Since when do you bake with sour cream?”

“You can use sour cream in lots of recipes,” Bittle answered. “I use sour cream in my coffee cake.”

“But why? It’s sour, and pastries are sweet.”

“Texture,” Bittle replied. “Recipes call for different dairy products depending on what texture you want. Mama makes a really good chocolate cake that uses mayonnaise. Ooey gooey goodness.”

Jack scrunched his nose in disgust. “Chocolate and mayonnaise sounds disgusting, Bittle.”

“You don’t actually taste the mayonnaise, silly,” Bittle said. “The cake flavors drown out the mayonnaise flavor.”

“If you say so,” Jack replied.

“I bet you if I made the cake and didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t know any different,” Bittle challenged. “You wouldn’t be able to taste the mayonnaise at all.”

“And if I do?” Jack asked. “What do I win?”

“The pie of your choice,” Bittle answered. “But you won’t win. You’re going to eat cake, and then you’re going to eat crow. So start practicin’ your song of sixpence and bring a pocketful of rye. If you’re gracious, I’ll bake your crow into a nice pie.”

“Are you chirping me with _nursery rhymes_?” Jack asked, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s definitely a first.”

“Shut up, Jack.” Bittle suddenly shivered. “I’m going to go sit for a spell on that bench, if you don’t mind,” he said, pointing to a wooden bench near the building. “Come find me when you’re done.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Shouldn’t take too much longer, I only need a few more shots.”

“Excellent,” Bittle said, stomping off towards the bench. “Lordamercy, I think my _bones_ are cold.”

 

* * *

 

Jack dropped down on the bench about twenty minutes later, glancing over to where Bittle sat. He had shucked his gloves in order to use his phone, the harsh backlight of the device giving his face a greenish, otherworldly glow.

_Click_.

“Not even the cold can keep you away from Twitter, eh Bittle?” Jack said when Bittle looked over with narrowed eyes.

“Neither sn-sn-snow nor sleet,” he replied, teeth chattering. “You must be done if you’re back to taking pictures of me.”

“I need photographic evidence when Mama Bittle tries to blame me for your pneumonia,” Jack chirped, putting his camera in its bag. “That way she’ll know it’s definitely your fault.”

“I wouldn’t need to do this if you hadn’t dragged me out in this cold,” Bittle grumbled. Jack didn’t miss the fond smile that crossed his face. “You get what you need for class?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Jack said, standing up and holding out his hand. “C’mon, let’s go get that hot chocolate before you freeze to the bench.”

 

* * *

 

“One hot chocolate with marshmallows,” Jack said, setting the cup down in front of Bittle. “Drink up.”

Bittle looked up from his phone, smiling brightly. “Thanks, Jack.” He wrapped his hands around the mug and inhaled deeply. “Mmm, smells like she put in some cinnamon.”

“Yeah, you put cinnamon in your hot chocolate at home, so I asked the barista to put some in.” Jack frowned at Bittle’s hands, which were red and chapped from the cold. “Got something for your hands, Bittle?”

“Hm?” Bittle looked down at his hands. “Oh, I guess they are a bit red, huh? I probably should’ve left my gloves on.”

“Lardo has some cocoa butter that works really well,” Jack said. “We gotta keep your hands soft, eh?”

“Oh you think you’re so clever,” Bittle said, but he was grinning

“Mind’s a steel trap,” Jack said, tapping his temple. “I mean, I _am_ a robot.”

“You stop that, Jack Zimmermann,” Bittle said fiercely. “You are _not_ a robot. Shitty shouldn’t call you one.”

“He’s just teasing,” Jack replied. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, except to help me explain my own behavior patterns.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” Bittle huffed. “You’re a person, just like everybody else. We all have our modes. I stress bake, Rans curls up in a ball, and Chowder naps.” He reached out and patted Jack’s hand. “We’re all just people, Jack.”

Jack smiled at the glint in Bittle’s eyes. “Thanks, Bittle.”

“Of course.” Bittle took a sip of hot chocolate and let out a contented sigh. “Definitely worth trudging through all the snow,” he said.

“Your suffering is noted and appreciated,” Jack replied, sipping his own hot chocolate.

Bittle surveyed Jack over the rim of his cup. “Time with you isn’t suffering, Jack,” he said gently. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to.”

Jack felt a sense of warmth settle in his chest entirely unrelated to hot chocolate as he watched Bittle drink his cocoa. Bittle wasn’t obliging him or humoring him. He had wanted to be there. Even if it meant dressing for an arctic expedition and trudging through the snow for two hours.

It felt nice, not having to worry about his presence being burdensome. He could get used to it.

 

* * *

 

He’d taken it on a whim, but the photograph of Bittle on the bench had come out surprisingly well. The backlight of his phone threw Bittle’s face into sharp relief against the soft, snowy background of campus. With his scarf pulled up to his nose and his hat pulled down, the focus ended up being Bittle’s warm brown eyes, intently focused on the screen in front of him.

Jack ended up including it in his critique. It was the most interesting photo he had taken from a lighting perspective. And that _was_ the entire point of the assignment. It would be silly not to include it.

And if Jack kept it as a reminder that his southern friend with absolutely no tolerance for the cold had willingly bundled up and trudged around campus with him for a homework assignment, well, that was for Jack to know.

 

* * *

 

_Weeks 9-10: High Speed Photography_

_Assignment: Life in Motion_

_We are constantly on the move. Taking meaningful photographs requires us to slow down and reflect on what we want to say. High speed photography poses a dual challenge: the technical difficulty of capturing a clear subject, and finding a moment that tells a story. Shoot a roll of subjects engaged in a high-speed activity_   _. You will select 8 photographs to print, mat, and bring to class for critique._

 

Jack knew two things. First, his friends had his back and would do anything for him. They might groan and gripe about the thing if it was particularly stressful or burdensome, but they would still do it because they had his back.

Second, it was a lot easier to ask them for unappealing favors after they’d had a couple beers. Which was why Jack waited to ask them to help him with his high-speed photography assignment during the second intermission of the Leafs game they were watching. Unsurprisingly, everyone in the room was more than willing to help.

They’d be whiny about it when they sobered up and realized they’d willingly agreed to go to Faber two hours before morning skate. But “got your back” was sacred, regardless of how early it was or how awful their hangovers were.

 

* * *

 

“Somebody remind me why we are up at ass-o’clock in the morning?” Ransom asked, yawning as he sat down heavily in his stall. “And it better be a damn good reason.”

“Because Jack Zimmermann needs to pass his photography elective and we agreed to help,” Holster replied, sinking down onto the bench. “Because Jack Zimmermann works harder on his electives than I do on my required classes.”

“Works harder ‘n God,” Bittle slurred, sitting down and rubbing his eyes. “But it’s a required class, right Jack?”

“It’s my last required course,” Jack confirmed, rifling through his camera bag. “I really appreciate you guys helping me.”

“This is why no decisions should be made after half a case of Bud,” Holster groaned. “I cannot and should not be held accountable for anything I say after that many beers.”

“Aw c’mon guys, it’s gonna be ‘swawesome!” Chowder said, strapping on his pads. “We’ll be all nice and warmed up for morning skate when we’re done.”

“This fuckin’ beaut of a goalie,” Shitty yawned. “I can’t tell if he’s being serious or sarcastic. The uncertainty is delightful.”

“He’s being sincere,” Dex replied, pulling his jersey on. “Dude’s just that enthusiastic. It’s creepy as shit, Chow.”

“Oh lighten up, Dex,” Chowder said. “Don’t take your hangover out on us. I told you not to chug that last beer.”

“Yeah Dex,” Nursey said, bracing himself against his stall. “ _Chill_.”

“Shut the fuck up _Nursey_.”

“Hey, hey, HEY!” Holster bellowed, staring down the frogs, hands on his hips. “We’re all tired, we’re all hungover, and we’re all a little grouchy. But we’re doing this for Jack. So quit your bickering before I have to break some faces. We good?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Dex huffed, sitting down to lace up his skates.

“Totally chill.” Nursey’s voice was muffled; he’d gotten stuck trying to pull off his hoodie. “Uh, could I get a hand?”

“I’m gonna head to the stands and get the camera ready,” Jack said, walking to the door as Ransom freed Nursey from his sweatshirt. “Let me know if you, uh, need help.”

 

* * *

 

“So, what’s the goal of this exercise?” Shitty called, skating warm up laps around the ice.

Jack looked up from where he was in the stands. “The goal is right there, Shits,” he said, pointing at the net. “Need to clean your visor, eh?”  

“You shouldn’t fuckin’ sass me after making me get up this goddamn early,” Shitty retorted. “What’re we doing here? Playing three on three? Running drills? Putting on a show?”

“Somebody should put on Beyoncé if we want a show,” Holster said. “Hey Dex, can you get into the sound system? Bitty’ll put on an _amazing_ show if we blast Beyoncé.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Don’t you start with me Holster,” Bittle shouted, skating figure eights around the rink. “I’ve seen your _Hips Don’t Lie_ routine.”

“SHAKIRA SHAKIRA!” the frogs chorused gleefully.

“Work it Holster!” Chowder shouted as Dex and Nursey cackled. “We wanna see if you make a man wanna speak Spanish!”

Jack grinned, watching his team chirp each other. “No show, just play hockey, eh?” he said, hiding his smile. “Just need photos of you in motion.”

“YOU HEARD THE CAP’N!” Shitty bellowed. “3 on 3, Rans and Holster are captains!”

“FUCK YEAH WE ARE!”

 

* * *

 

Jack knew better than anybody just how _fast_ of a game hockey was; however, he had a very different appreciation for how fast the game moved as a photographer. It was different, watching his teammates glide across the ice, from watching a live game or watching tape. Watching tape he was always looking for strategies and weaknesses, components to analyze. Here, he was searching for _moments_. A save by Chowder. A pass between Dex and Nursey. A face-off between Ransom and Holster. 

“Sick spinorama, Bitty!” Holster shouted as Bittle spun neatly out of Dex’s path. “Hope you got a picture of that, Jack!”

“Total fuckin’ Kodak moment right there!” Shitty agreed.

Jack had, in fact, gotten a picture of it. And of the three other times Bittle had unleashed his spinorama.

“Ooh, you should do a jump, Bitty!” Chowder said. “Like you did at the Pond!”

“Oh, I dunno,” Bittle said modestly. “We’re here for Jack’s assignment, not for me to show off.”

“Do it for the camera, then?” Jack called. He grinned as Bittle stuck out his tongue.

“Well, if it’s for the greater good, then I’ll give you a few,” he said magnanimously, skating a few laps. “Watch out, all y’all, I’m gonna need some space!”

Jack quickly focused on Bittle as he went through his jumps, taking dozens of photos in quick succession. It was incredible to watch him soar through the air, a whirl of red and white, landing neatly at the end of each jump.

It was easy to see now why Hall and Murray had chosen Bittle for the team. He was a damn good skater, fluid and graceful in all his movements. His jumps looked effortless; it was easy to forget just how at home Bittle was on the ice as he was in the kitchen. He belonged in Faber as much as he did in the Haus.

“Get what you need, Jack?” Bittle shouted, coming to a stop. “I’m not sure how many more jumps I have in me.”

“I got everything,” Jack yelled back. “Thanks, Bittle!”

“RIGHT THEN, INTERMISSION OVER!” Holster bellowed. “BACK ON THE ICE, EVERYBODY. TIME TO KICK RANS’S TEAM’S ASS.”

“NOT IF WE KICK YOURS FIRST, HOLTZY!”

Jack grinned, bringing his camera up to his eye again. This was going to be good.

 

* * *

 

Overall, Jack was pleased with how the hockey photos came out; most of them were usable instead of being little red and white blurs. There was a good shot of Chowder’s goalie face that made Jack quake just looking at it. He’d gotten one of Nursey hitting a slapshot, eyes glinting in concentration. Another showed Ransom skating furiously down the ice behind Dex. And, of course, there were dozens of photos of Bittle’s spinorama.

More impressive than the spinorama photos were the shots of Bittle’s jumps. Jack’s favorite was taken seconds before Bittle landed. His arms were spread out gracefully and the expression on his face was one of supreme confidence; confidence that his skate would land on the ice, confidence in his ability to pull off the jump.

Confidence looked good on Bittle, Jack decided as he selected the photo for his critique. It suited him. Too often he’d seen Bittle at his most vulnerable on the ice during checking practice, his movements tense, anticipating the coming blows. The ice was an enemy that day.  Here, his movements were free as he took ownership of the ice, clearly in his element. It was good to see him at ease instead of holding back in fear.

 

* * *

 

_Week 15-16: Details_

_Assignment: Devil’s in the Details_

_Often the most compelling pieces of a photograph are the small details that go unnoticed unless one is paying attention. Shoot the equivalent of a roll of film focusing on small details. You will select, print, and mat eight photographs for critique._

 

After the night photography assignment, Bittle had become Jack’s unofficial photography companion, going with him while he took photos for classes. These walks usually ended at Annie’s. Shitty had started referring to them as “photography expeditions.”

“Like _National Geographic_ photographers,” he had said, exhaling smoke, joint held loosely between his fingers. “You guys go into the wild of Samwell to document Wellies in their natural habitat. Except _National Geographic_ got fucking bought out buy that asslord Murdoch. Can you believe it? That shithead is in charge of fucking _National Geographic_ …ugh, Nursey and I were talking about just how shitty journalism has gotten these days, and I tell you...”

The resulting forty-minute diatribe had ended with Shitty making hot dogs in a fit of the munchies and accidentally covering them in sriracha sauce and not ketchup.

It had been a long night.

Jack enjoyed their expeditions. It was easy, being with Bittle. There were no awkward or uncomfortable silences. Bittle would chatter on as Jack took photos, keeping him up to date pop culture, Samwell happenings, and Bittle family dramas.

Something was clearly bothering Bittle on one such expedition that spring. He hadn’t said anything about it as they walked to Annie’s that afternoon, but it was pretty clear that something was up. He was less chatty than usual; Jack had been walking with him for twenty minutes and had yet to hear one peep about the latest Bittle family dispute - something do with red velvet cake.

“Samwell’s got so much cool ironwork, you know?” Jack said as they walked, trying to elicit a smile from Bittle. “Look at that railing.” He pointed at the railing on one of the academic buildings. 

Jack was rewarded with a small smile. “It is pretty,” Bittle agreed.

“You okay, Bittle?” Jack asked, frowning. “You seem quiet today. Something bothering you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Bittle said breezily.The bright smile on his face didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

“We can go back to the Haus if you need to take a nap,” Jack said, turning to head back. “I can take more pictures on our way back.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack,” Bittle said airily. “A latte at Annie’s and I’ll be awake in no time. Now, have I told you about what happened at the Easter potluck back home? Mama said it turned _nasty…_ ”

Jack let his concerns go as they walked, listening to how Mrs. Davis nearly ruined the Madison Baptist Church Easter Potluck by bringing an apple crumble instead of the apple crisp she had been assigned.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Bittle was not just tired. Something was definitely wrong.

Jack came home the next day and found Bittle kneeling on the kitchen tile, forehead resting against the oven. The ingredients for a strawberry tart were sitting on the kitchen table, untouched.

“Did something happen?” Jack asked, leaning against the door frame.

Bittle turned his head to look at him. “Betsy’s not well,” he said mournfully.

“Oh.” Jack combed his memory, trying to recall if Bittle had mentioned Betsy before. Clearly she was somebody important. “Is that...an aunt?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Bittle started to laugh hysterically, sliding down the to floor and curling up in a fetal position. He stayed down there for several minutes, eyes squeezed shut as he convulsed with giggles. Jack had half a mind to call somebody when Bittle finally sat up, wiping tears from his eyes.

“No, Betsy is the oven,” he explained as he attempted to pull himself together. “She’s been acting up all semester, but she’s getting worse.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the oven had a name. Or that, uh, she wasn’t doing well.”

“It’s okay,” Bittle sighed, standing up and heading for the door. “Anyway, I’m going to go to Norris to do some work, since I can’t make a tart without Betsy.”

“You want some company?” Jack asked, following Bittle into the hall.

“No thanks,” Bittle answered, turning around. “I can’t be around people who butcher the word _aunt_ right now.” He winked at Jack before opening the door. “We’re going to go over the proper pronunciation as soon as I get back, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack was still standing in the hallway when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket; it was a text from Bittle.

_I couldn’t wait until later. You’re a lost cause with pecan, but I will not stand by and let you mispronounce “aunt.”_

His phone buzzed several more times, presumably an essay on the correct pronunciation of “aunt.”

Jack grinned, and headed up to his room. Bittle had to be feeling a bit better if he was schooling Jack via text message.

 

* * *

 

Bittle was still upset about Betsy the next day, so they hit up Superberry for froyo after their photography expedition. Jack knew that that froyo was Bitty and Lardo’s thing, but if he was honest, he was starting to get a little unnerved by all the knowing smiles that the baristas had been directing his way at Annie’s the last few weeks.

“Jack, you are the most unimaginative froyo maker ever,” Bittle said, staring at the bowl in Jack’s hands while they waited in line. “Vanilla yogurt and hot fudge?”

Jack shrugged. “It tastes good,” he said mildly. “And I know what’s in it. What’ve you got in yours, Bittle? I can’t see the yogurt under all your toppings.”

“Strawberry yogurt, chocolate yogurt, strawberries, hot fudge, Oreo crumbles, and chocolate chips,” Bittle replied. “With sprinkles for color.”

“That’ll be $4.95,” the cashier told Bittle.

“He’s with me,” Jack said, handing Bittle his bowl before placing his own on the scale. “I’m sorry, I should have said something.”

“You’re sweet, Jack,” Bittle said, reaching for his wallet. “But I can pay for my own froyo.”

“It’s on me, Bittle,” Jack said firmly, nodding at the cashier. “I think I’m good for it.”

Bittle rolled his eyes but pocketed his wallet. “Thanks.”

They found a small table by the storefront window, next to the jukebox playing bubbly pop hits from the fifties. Jack pulled out his camera to review the pictures he had taken while Bittle dug into his froyo.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been myself lately,” Bittle said, stirring his strawberry chocolate confection. “It’s just...I’m worried about Betsy.”

“You’ve been fine,” Jack assured him.  “I thought she was doing better. There were fresh cookies this afternoon.”

“She heated up all right and I managed to get one of batch of cookies done today,” Bittle sighed, “but she shut down during the second batch.”

“You’ve asked Dex to look at her again, right?” Jack asked, taking a bite of his own froyo.

“I have, but he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to keep fixing her much longer,” Bittle answered morosely. “And I hate to bother him all the time? Poor frog spends half his time fixing everything else around the Haus, I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Hey, Dex isn’t exactly known for sparing people’s feelings,” Jack said reassuringly. “If you were bothering him, he’d tell you. In very, uh, _colorful_ terms.”

“Colorful?” Bittle snorted. “You sayin’ Dex’d cuss me out?”

“Heard him tell off some lax bro a few months ago,” Jack replied. “Frog’s got a mouth on him.”

“So he…swears like a sailor?” Bitty asked, grinning. They both started laughing.

“How much longer does he think Betsy is going to last?” Jack asked when they calmed down.

“Not much longer,” Bitty answered, scooping up some froyo on his spoon. “It’s only a matter of time. I just don’t know what I’m going to do if she breaks down completely.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Jack said, reaching out to pat Bittle’s hand. 

Bittle gave him a small smile; the froyo had left a little pink mustache on his upper lip. “Thanks, Jack.” He went back to his froyo while Jack went for his camera.

_Click_.

“You really like candid photos, don’tcha?” Bittle sighed, looking up.

“Needed a photo of that playoff mustache you’ve got,” Jack said with a grin. “It’s coming in nicely, eh?”

“What are you talking about?” Bittle fished his phone out, checked his face in the selfie camera, then rolled his eyes, reaching for a napkin. “Ha ha, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“You should be glad I don’t know how to use Twitter,” Jack said. “Because if I did, I think I’d Twitter that picture.”

“No Jack, you would _tweet_ that picture,” Bittle corrected. “The verb is ‘to tweet.’”

“I thought the verb was _to chirp_ ,” Jack replied.

Bittle groaned in exasperation. “Why am I friends with you, Jack? Why?”

“I buy you froyo and provide you with material for your Twitter,” Jack answered. “How many bakers would follow you if we weren’t friends?”

“Probably more, since I would spend more time tweeting about baking and less time tweeting about how you don’t know how to use Instagram,” Bittle retorted.

“Aw, don’t pout Bittle,” Jack said. “I’m sure the official Betty Crocker Twitter will follow you soon.”

“JACK ZIMMERMANN, DON’T YOU BLASPHEME LIKE THAT.”

 

* * *

 

Bittle looked pensive in the photograph, a marked departure from all of Jack’s photos to date. It was a close-up shot of his face, staring off to the side, with the spoon just touching his lips and his froyo mustache just a few shades darker than his skin. With the light coming in through the window, and the sharp splash of color from the jukebox just edging into the shot, it made for a compelling image from which Jack found it difficult to look away. To leave it out of the assignment would have been just criminal.

As beautiful as it was, Jack couldn’t help but feel a bit sad as he looked at the photo. At first glance, Bittle merely seemed thoughtful, staring into space as he ate his froyo. The slight downturn to Bittle’s lips and his slumped shoulders, however, betrayed his anxiety about Betsy. It was disconcerting to see Bittle, perpetually cheerful and bubbly as he was, so withdrawn.

Perhaps there was something Jack could do to fix it.

 

* * *

 

_Week 17: Finals Week_

_Assignment: Final Portfolio_

_The final assignment for this class is a portfolio. Your final portfolio must include 16 photographs that incorporate the various techniques covered over the course of the semester. The portfolio does not need to have a unifying theme, but all the photographs you include should reflect your artistic vision and your understanding of photography as a way to capture and convey meaning._

 

Jack couldn’t help but be nervous during what Ransom and Holster had dubbed “Operation: Oven Overhaul,” or O3. He hadn’t been this nervous since his first game at Samwell.

“We’ve got it under control, bro,” Holster had said that morning. “We got this figured out.”

“Chill Jack,” Nursey added. “We’ve all gone over the plan several times. Lardo’s taken Bitty for breakfast, Rans and Holster are going to take him for lunch after his final, then C, Farmer, and I will meet up with him at Kotter. Once Dex gives us the all clear, we’ll bring him back to the Haus and I’ll take his phone to live-tweet his reaction.”

“Shitty’s getting beverages, Ollie and Wicks are getting munchies, and Holster and I came up with a bomb-ass playlist,” Ransom said, patting Jack’s shoulder. “Trust us, bro. Trust the spreadsheets. We got your back.”

For the first time in a long time, that sentence was not as reassuring as it had been previously.

He busied himself pacing up and down the Haus while the deliveryman and Dex worked to get the oven installed, routinely poking his head into the kitchen to make sure everything was going according to plan.

“Look Jack,” Dex said, wiping his forehead after Jack’s sixth check-in, “I know you’re nervous, but if you keep pacing up and down the hallway, I’m going to fucking break something.”

“Hm?” Jack looked up from checking the O3 group chat for new updates. “Sorry, didn’t catch that, Dex.”

Dex sighed. “Go call Shitty. You’ll feel better.”

“I’m fine, Dex…” His phone buzzed; Ransom had texted to announce that he and Holster had taken Bittle to Jerry’s for lunch.

Dex crossed his arms. “If you don’t call Shitty, _I’m_ going to call Shitty.” His gaze was steely. “Then he’s going to call you and it’ll really be easier if you just _go call Shitty_.”

“Fine,” Jack acquiesced, heading up the stairs.” “Let me know if something comes up, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dex replied. “If you hear swearing, that means everything’s working.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, PLACES everybody,” Ransom shouted. “Chowder and Nursey are bringing Bitty over, they’re about a ten minute walk from the Haus. Dex, you stand by the oven. Did you shower after getting the oven set up?”

“Of course I showered, what kind of question is that?”

“Relax bro, just checking. Jack, you stand at an exact 45 degree angle from the door for optimum photography. Shitty, you stand by Jack, Lardo, you stand in front of Shits. Holster and I’ll be over here by the bulletin board. Everybody else - fill in the living room and hall accordingly. Make it look natural and not like an honor guard.”

“Ransom, I’m pretty sure you just made up that angle,” Jack said as he positioned himself. “But this spot should work fine.”

“As long as you can get the picture,” Ransom replied. “Now, we aren’t going to shout _surprise_ or _gotcha_ when he walks in.” He turned to Holster. “And _why_ aren’t we doing this, Holster?”

“Because we want him to react the oven, not to us,” Holster recited solemnly.

“Precisely,” Ransom praised, raising his fist for Holster to bump. 

“Why do you have so many rules for a party?” Dex asked, raising his eyebrows. “It’s a surprise party. It’s not that hard.”

“Throwing kegsters is an art, little frog,” Holster answered. “The perfect party. It’s an elusive idea. People have to be completely entertained from the moment they walk in to the moment they leave. It’s a grand experiment, and Rans is a party scientist.”

“You just quoted _Parks & Rec_, dude,” Dex said dryly.

“Hey, that show is full of wisdom,” Holster retorted. “Don’t be a Mark Brendanaquits, Dex.”

“Guys, shut up!” Lardo hissed. “I think I hear them coming up the sidewalk!”

“This is it!” Ransom stage-whispered. “Get ready, everybody!”

The door opened. “‘Kay y’all, the whole team is here and I haven’t baked anything,” Bittle said, voice echoing in the hall. “It’s a surprise party. I get it.”

“Chill, Bitty,” Nursey soothed. “You’ll see in a minute.”

“But why can’t I have my phone?”

“Just keep walking, Bitty!” Chowder said excitedly. “Go on into the kitchen!"

Bittle and his escorts came into view, Nursey with his easy smile, Bittle’s phone in his hands,  and Chowder bouncing in his shoes. “Aren’t y’all going to yell surprise?” Bittle asked, looking quizzically around the room. “Jack, why’ve you got your camera up?”

“Notice anything...different?” Chowder prompted. He was practically vibrating with excitement, eyes lit up with glee.

Finally, _finally_ , Bittle’s gaze landed on the new oven. He let out a gasp, eyes widening, and his hand flying to his mouth.

_Click_.

“Is that...is that…” Bittle stuttered. “Is that an _oven_?!”

“Sure is,” Nursey said, taking a picture with Bittle’s phone. “Happy birthday, Bitty!”

“I can’t _believe_ y’all,” Bittle choked. “How’d y’all - When did y’all - What did y’all do with…”

“We all pitched in,” Holster explained. “Rans and Dex did some research and picked out the new oven. Dex uninstalled Betsy and helped the deliveryman install the new one.”

“We’ll sell Betsy for scrap and put the money in the Sin Bin,” Dex said with a smile. “So you can stock up on baking supplies.”

“I can’t believe y’all would do this for me,” Bittle breathed, looking around at his teammates. “I really can’t.”

“‘Course we would,” Ransom said. “You spend so much time cooking and baking for us. It’s only fair we help replace the oven. Excel doesn’t lie. We owed you.”

“And I dunno about you bro, but I was missing the Lardo and Bits cooking show,” Lardo piped up, throwing her arm around Bittle’s shoulders.

“I don’t know what to say,” Bittle said, wiping his eyes. “Thank y’all _so_ much. She’s beautiful.” 

“You’re so welcome, brah,” Shitty said, coming over to give Bittle an affectionate noogie. “It was all Jack’s idea.”

Bittle looked up at Jack, eyes shining. “Jack Zimmermann, you sneak!” he scolded. “You said you didn’t know today was my birthday!”

“And you believed that I didn’t remember your birthday,” Jack retorted, grinning as Bittle flushed. “I’m shocked, Bittle. Shocked.”

“All right, who’s ready for Bitty’s birthday kegster?!” Shitty shouted. “Let’s get this fucking party started!!”

The Haus exploded into cheers, and the entire team converged on Bitty for a group hug before grabbing beer and snacks. Ollie and Wicks brought out a cake they had picked up from a local bakery.

“It’s not as good as your cakes, Bitty,” Ollie apologized as he sliced the first piece. “But it’s better than something from Murder Stop ‘n Shop.”

“Oh bless you,” Bittle said, accepting the cake. “It’s the thought that counts.”

 

* * *

 

Bittle made his way over to Jack a little while later. “I can’t believe you went out and bought me an oven,” he said. “You ridiculous boy.”

“It was only my idea,” Jack replied. “We all pitched in.”

“Still,” Bittle sniffled, eyes watery, “You put up with all my complainin’ about Betsy, then went and roped everybody into buying me a new oven for my birthday.”

“It was a pretty easy sell,” Jack said, squeezing Bittle’s shoulder. “We’re your team. We have your back.”

He startled when Bittle threw his arms around him. “Thank you, Jack,” he murmured, voice muffled by Jack’s t-shirt.

“You’re welcome,” Jack said softly, wrapping his arms around Bittle’s shoulders. “Happy birthday, Bittle.”

Bittle let go and wiped his eyes. “ _Lord_ , look at me,” he fussed. “I’m crying worse than a cook cuttin’ onions.” He smiled brightly. “Oh this is so exciting! I need to bake something right this second!”

“Please stop crying, first,” Jack said, giving Bittle’s shoulder a squeeze. “Have you thought about what you’re going to name her?”

“Oh, I haven’t!” Bittle said thoughtfully. “I'll probably need to bake a few things and get to know her first. She’s got a personality. We’ll discover her name in time.”

Jack opened his mouth, then shut it, choosing to nod instead. Some things were not meant to be questioned. The naming of ovens, Jack decided, was one of them.

 

* * *

 

Jack was incredibly pleased with how the photo of Bittle reacting to the new oven turned out.  His brown eyes were blown wide in shock, the afternoon sun filtering through the kitchen window highlighted his golden hair, and cast his face into soft shadows. Framed between a giddy Chowder and a grinning Nursey, Bittle exuded a sense of shock and delight.

_Radiant_ , Jack’s mind supplied. Bittle was radiant.

He decided to include it in his final portfolio. He couldn’t think of a more meaningful photograph he’d taken all year. And that was the point of the portfolio - to demonstrate his grasp on the relationship between photography and the creation of meaning.

He’d titled it _Got Your Back_. Of all the dozens of photographs he’d taken of his teammates over the semester, nothing encapsulated their team motto quite as much as this. _Got Your Back_ was so much more than having somebody’s back on the ice. It was having their back _off_ the ice. Bittle had everybody’s back at all times. It was nice, for once, to show him that they had his, too.

 

* * *

 

_Final Grade: A_

_Jack, your work this semester has shown that you have an eye for capturing the personalities of your subjects and finding meaningful moments in everyday scenarios. It’s clear that your relationship with your friend_ _is very important to you - I hope that continues. It has been a pleasure to have you in class. -Prof. Martinelli_

 

* * *

 

_Extra Credit_

 

Something didn’t feel right.

It was all over. Suddenly, Jack had his diploma in hand, and what felt like a thousand photos had been taken with his friends, followed by goodbye after goodbye, and with each one the sense of wrongness increased, a niggle in the back of his mind that he’d forgotten something; something important.

_You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take_ Papa had said. And that was the crux of the matter; Jack had missed a shot somewhere along the line.

Jack thought back to the events of the afternoon, to his friends. Shitty, Ransom, and Holster, all clapping his back, Shitty crying unashamedly into Jack's’ shoulder while Lardo did her best to extract him. The Frogs, shaking his hand, trying to play it cool in front of Papa, and for once leaving their squabbles at home.

And Bittle.

_Bittle_.

He’d said goodbye to Bittle. They’d hugged not five feet from where Jack was standing now.

And yet he felt empty, almost bereft.

Suddenly, every photograph he’d taken of Bittle floated through Jack’s mind. The angelic glow of the Haus window. The cozy homeness of baking. The backlit screen. The jumps at Faber. The strawberry froyo mustache. The teary delight upon seeing the oven. Jack felt his heart swell as he went over each photograph in his mind, but he wasn’t quite sure why.

So he took a lot of photographs of Bittle. They were good friends. He took photos of his other friends, too. That didn’t make Bittle different. Did it?

_“But it’s like this guy is in ALL your photos. Like, even if he IS around a lot, it’s like you made him the subject of these compositions...it’s like you’re implicitly saying HE’S an important part of your team. Least that’s what I see_.”

Well, Greg hadn’t been _wrong_ when he’d said that. Bittle had been an incredibly important part of Jack’s team. Jack played better when Bittle was on the ice. Off the ice - well, the Haus had felt more like a home and the SMH had felt more like a family ever since Bittle had showed up with his boxes of pie tins, rolling pins, and butter.

_“Visually, it’s interesting how you consistently associate this character with warmth_ ,” Professor Martinelli had said during one of his critiques. He hadn’t quite understood what she meant at the time, but he did now. Bittle was a warm person, always ready with a smile, a hug, and a treat. Jack always felt warm when he looked at Bittle. Warm, happy, safe, and wanted.

Maybe that’s what he had forgotten to tell Bittle. How much these last several weeks had meant to him. How much he valued their friendship. How he hadn’t felt that comfortable with a person since Shitty, whose usual goal was to make people as uncomfortable as possible. How grateful he was that after being a complete dick their first year, Bittle had still given him a chance to make up for it.

But how was he supposed to say that? Besides shoving every single picture he’d taken of Bittle in his face?

_"Go really say goodbye._ ”

Oh. _Oh_.

“Oh,” he breathed.

He had to find Bittle. Right now.

“J’reviens!” he called over his shoulder, sprinting towards the Haus.

He knew what he had to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I gave myself cavities writing this fic, ZIMBITS IS THE FLUFFIEST COUPLE EVER, HOLY CRAP. 
> 
> FYI, Mama Bittle’s chocolate mayonnaise cake is a real cake my aunt makes and it is OOEY GOOEY CHOCOLATEY GOODNESS and my absolute FAVORITE. The best birthdays are when I’m home and she makes me one. Because my aunt is the best. 
> 
> As always, feedback and constructive criticism is welcome. I'm always looking for ways to improve. 
> 
> I have a writing tumblr if you'd like to say hi! lecrivaineanonyme.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Happy Holidays!


End file.
